


The Dragon King

by Kranja



Series: Lords of the Black Flight [1]
Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Angst, Future Fic, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-02
Updated: 2014-09-14
Packaged: 2018-02-07 03:27:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1883505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kranja/pseuds/Kranja
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When he first met Anduin Wrynn, Wrathion didn't realize just how short a human lifespan is.  Now that the time has come, he finds he can't face losing his love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> My second fic ever! Criticisms are welcome.

King Anduin Wrynn of Stormwind lies dying. Beside the great bed, a black drake paces the length of the room.

“I won’t have it,” the creature snarls. “Anduin, I _won’t._ ”

Anduin sighs, forcing his tired eyes open. “Ah, love,” he murmurs, voice cracked and wheezing. The drake whirls to the bed, leaning over the frail figure nearly lost in the blankets, head tilted to listen to the weak voice. Anduin lifts his hand to the black-scaled snout, grimacing at the sight of his wrinkled, desiccated flesh against the smooth sheen of dragonscale. “We knew this was coming, Wrathion. We’ve always known. It’s been a good run.”

The snout jerks out from under his hand, leaving it to flop weakly to the coverlet. “A good _run?_ ” Wrathion hisses. “You call this _good?_ A paltry three decades of strength and then this…this endless _decline_ , this _wasting,_ this….”

The king sighs again, recognizing the signs of Wrathion working himself into a good, lengthy rant. In brighter days he might have sat back and listened, nodding seriously but secretly enjoying the snap of fire in those burning eyes, the exclamatory sweep of his tail, the passionate rise and fall of his expressive voice, but he’s just so tired these days. “Please, love, don’t,” he whispers. “There’s no time.”

Wrathion freezes mid-pace for a moment, then whirls away, his wings tightening with a creak against his sides. Even after all this time, Anduin knows, it takes an act of will for his proud dragon to let anyone see him cry. He waits patiently, knowing better than to press him now, and after a bit Wrathion turns back to the bed, tucking his sleek black body a little closer this time. “Come here,” Anduin pleads, and in a swirl of smoke the twenty-foot drake is replaced by a slim human figure with dusky skin and burning red eyes, seemingly a young man of no more than eighteen. He slumps into the great bed, curling against Anduin’s side. With a hiss of effort Anduin wraps an arm around him, brushing his thumb against the smooth cheek. _And now I feel like a dirty old man again,_ he thinks ruefully.

“Don’t think I don’t know what you’re thinking,” Wrathion growls, voice muffled in Anduin’s shoulder. “We’ve been over that, too.”

“I know, I know. It’s silly. You just look so much younger than me.” He turns his head slightly to nuzzle the dark hair against his face. “And you have done for…a long time now. Think I’d be used to it. But the older I get, the younger you look.” At that Wrathion thumps him lightly on the chest, not even hard enough to pain his fragile bones, and Anduin huffs out a laugh that dissolves into a wet, hacking cough that makes Wrathion pull back to watch him anxiously.

After a long moment Anduin settles back, breathing carefully, and casts his dragon an attempt at a smile. “Wrathion,” he breathes. “Ah, do you remember when we stood on the last battlefield to watch the Legion break and flee before us? When I wrapped us in a shield of the Light to keep us safe and you breathed balefire and magic to rout them from their trenches, and all the assembled armies cheered us as we landed silhouetted against the bloody sun?”

Wrathion snorts softly. “Of course I remember. With the state your brain’s likely in these days, I dare say I remember it better than you. And it’s when I landed. You were just along for the ride.”

“Such romance. Well, do you remember when my father caught us together, when I was nineteen and we were both fumbling and terrified and he nearly killed you before you could nip out the window?”

“I have never in my life been ‘fumbling and terrified,’ Anduin Wrynn.”

Anduin chuckles, resting his head against Wrathion’s, and doesn’t argue the point. There’s a comfortable silence, broken finally by Wrathion taking a long, slow breath and letting it out in a rush. “Oh, my prince,” he says, and Anduin’s heart clenches at the old endearment, the one that hasn’t been accurate for over fifty years but still makes him blush like a schoolboy. “I suppose I knew better than to fall in love with a short lived human, but I was so young. I knew, but didn’t understand, how fast the decades could roll by, and the span of a human life seemed time enough when we were both as strong and fierce as young lions. It’s gone by so fast. It’s been the span of a blink since the legion fled, an hour since you took the crown, no more than a day since you sat across from me at a Pandaren game board and laughed at me as no one had ever dared to laugh at the son of Deathwing.”

“I remember. You got so flustered.”

“I did no such thing, hush now, I’m not done.” Wrathion pushes away and Anduin almost protests, but he’s up and pacing again before Anduin’s dulled reflexes can catch his hand. His voice rises in volume as he paces, overriding Anduin’s occasional attempt to break in. “So many years lost. To your father’s prejudice—yes, yes, it wasn’t unreasonable of him to be wary of a black dragon worming into his son’s affections, I’m sure it all seemed horribly familiar to him—then to that woman of yours don’t look at me like that, I know it was necessary, I know you needed a son, I know you came to see her as a friend, but I did not appreciate being thrown over for a silly human and you may gasp in shock when I say I am not sorry she’s gone, but by then the best years of your life had already slipped away from us!” He turns sharply to face the bed, lips pulled back over too-sharp teeth. “What is the span of a human life when you cannot even have most of it? It’s too short! It’s too soon! I _won’t have it,_ Anduin!”

Suddenly he goes quiet. He stands in the center of the great bedchamber, head cocked, eyes distant, fists still clenched from his outburst. A slight feeling of dread creeps up Anduin’s spine, but he’s gotten used to that and waits patiently.

“And…and why should I have to?” he says at last.

“Wrathion, love, there’s nothing to be done. I’m nearly ninety, it’s just….”

“Shush. No. Am I not the Earthwarder? Do I not have allies and resources of my own? I just…I just need some time.” And suddenly he’s at the bed again, hands clenched painfully tight on Anduin’s shoulders, blazing eyes inches from the king’s own. “Can you do that? Just a little longer, Anduin, my prince, my heart, just hold on for a few more days. I’ll know by then. I’ll have something by then, you just have to last that long. You have to _wait._ ”

“Wrathion, fire-heart, what?” Anduin stutters, wincing at the curved black nails digging into his shoulders. “What are you going to _do?_ You can’t…who are you going to ask?”

“I don’t know what I’ll do yet. But I promise—no old gods, no demons, nothing you wouldn’t approve of. I’m not that stupid. I haven’t rewritten the legacy of the black flight to become my father now, I promise. But you promise now. _Wait for me._ Promise!”

Anduin hesitates for a moment, just long enough for the ferocity in Wrathion’s eyes to soften slightly, letting him catch a glimpse of the fear and desperation beneath. “All right,” he says, and Wrathion sags. “I promise. A few days. I don’t know how long I can hold out, but I’ll give you a few days somehow.”

“Thank you,” Wrathion hisses, and there’s a brief, burning press of lips against Anduin’s forehead before he’s gone, slamming open the window shutter to leap out. Anduin hears the crack of wings opening as Wrathion shifts mid-fall, and catches a brief glimpse of him through the glass before those great black wings are lost against the dark night sky.


	2. Alexstrasza

On a desolate, wave-washed shore in Howling Fjord, Wrathion collapses in a heap of black spines and dark-red wings. He’s still except for the thunderous wheezing of his breath, seemingly unconcerned by the way his limbs are sprawled awkwardly across the sand. As his breathing eases, he cracks open one red eye to survey a tiny shore crab who’s taken an interest in his nose.

“Huh,” he says breathlessly. “Remind me not to try and fly across the ocean again any time soon.” The crab waves its claws sympathetically. “The last time I travelled that far all at once, I was a little whelp crossing back from Pandaria by ship. I find it very convenient to at least have the _option_ of landing every now and again.” With a groan, he heaves himself to his feet, sending his new friend scurrying for the safety of a dune.

He spreads his wings out carefully and gives them a thorough shake, wrinkling his snout at the hissing shower of sand that falls from them. As he settles them primly along his sides, he scowls up at the massive cliff some yards from the waterline. “Surely there’s a better way up than climbing,” he says in the direction of the crab, who peers out at him from under a drifted log. “And flying is out of the question for a little while at least.” Glaring up and down the long stretch of coast, he tenses with a sharp “Ha!” as he catches sight of a massive elevator that creeps up and down the rock face. He lifts a foot to step towards it, then stops, squinting. There’s a _settlement_ at the foot of the elevator. A tiny line of figures stands on the broad platform as it moves up to the cliff top, where he loses sight, but there are still figures as it comes back down. It’s obviously a well-traveled spot, in full view of a village full of mortals.

_Well._ Wrathion’s not about to sit in comfort on an elevator like a wingless lizard where anyone can _see_ him. Snarling curses and imprecations under his breath, he trudges over to the rock face, pausing now and again to shake the sand off his paws like a cat. Reaching high up to set his claws into the rock of the cliffs, he takes a hissing breath and starts to pull himself up.

Some time later, he claws his way over the top edge of the cliff and sits down heavily. “That wasn’t as difficult as crossing the ocean,” he observes. “Still, I think I’ll play human and charter a ship back to the mainland once I’m done here.” Spreading his wings experimentally, he nods at the feeling and takes off, flying steadily northwest.

—-

It’s a long flight, not as long as the trip over the open sea, but enough that he’s grateful for the chance to stop and rest his wings every so often. Beneath him the land grows steadily darker and more desolate, until he flies over the ice and ruin of Dragonblight. Ahead of him on the horizon a slender stone spire reaches up into the sky, resolving into an immense tower as he comes closer. Wheeling, darting shapes around it seem like birds from a distance, but it soon becomes obvious that they’re dragons—blue and green and red and bronze, drakes mostly with a few stately, massive adults, circling Wyrmrest Temple in the organized patterns of a trained guard.

Wrathion swallows. Even seventy-five years later, his relations with his own kind can be…rocky. _They have no right to deny me,_ he reminds himself. _Even when the black flight was known to be tainted and mad, they could not deny our emissary access to the Temple._ Still he flinches a little when a voice in hissing, guttural Draconic calls for him to stop.

Banking in a sharp circle, he angles his wings down and back to hover in place as he looks at his hailer. _A red. Of course it would be a red._ The sentry drake is much heavier in build than Wrathion, though shorter from nose to tail, and from the size of her horns she’s nearly two decades younger. That’s good—it’ll be a long time before the wounds inflicted on the dragon flights by Deathwing are even close to truly healed, but this drake was hatched after they were no longer as fresh and raw. Still, she blinks in surprise when Wrathion’s burning eyes fall on her, and clenches her claws.

“Wrathion,” she says. For good or ill, of course all dragons know his name. “You are, ah, unexpected. May I announce your business to the assembled emissaries?”

It’s a diplomatic tactic, one that lets her ask what the hell he’s doing here without saying as much. Wrathion avoids Wyrmrest when he can and everyone knows it—most are more comfortable that way. Even so, Wrathion finds himself suddenly snarling with anger and impatience. “No you may _not,_ ” he snaps, ignoring her wide eyes and sharp intake of deadly breath. “I haven’t the time to wait on a _messenger._ I need to speak to the Lifebinder immediately, so you may escort me or leave me be.”

He turns without waiting for a reply and angles himself in a steep climb towards the summit of the tower. Behind him he hears a hurried flurry of wingbeats and the red drake falls in beside him, her heavier body struggling to keep pace with him. He relents enough to let her pull ahead as if she’s truly an escort, but not far, and she has just enough time to vanish over the top edge and her voice to echo back “My lady, it’s….” before he lands beside her and folds his wings, looking around.

She’s there. He swallows as quietly as he can as his eyes meet the Dragon Queen’s. She’s in her High Elf form, of course—her true shape would never fit on the tower top—but power shines from her like light pouring off of her skin. Even at this size her presence seems to fill the circular platform with warmth and comfort, and despite his misgivings he feels himself respond to it, flight muscles unknotting and claws unclenching from the stone. It takes him a moment to pull his eyes away and look around—none of the other leaders of the flights are here, though there’s an emissary from each and two massive adult reds curled up catlike behind their Queen. The only emissary he knows is the bronze, and he hisses in soft dismay at the furious golden eyes staring up at him from the tiny white-haired gnome. Chromie is no friend to him, and after seventy years of hostility clearly never will be.

Well. No need to be rude without good reason. He steps forward and bows his head slightly, barely a shade deeper than the proper respect due an equal. “My Queen,” he says.

She smiles. Ah, she smiles. His worry and exhaustion vanish in a rush at the love and compassion in her eyes as she nods her own head in return. “Wrathion the Black,” she says in her soft, harmonious voice. “You rarely grace the Temple with your presence. And in some urgency, I see?”

“My lady….” He means to say it, he opens his mouth to say it, but the curious eyes watching him from all sides of the dais make him hesitate. The blue whispers something behind his hand to the green, who smiles in amusement. His teeth clench, and he holds his breath to hide the smoke trying to vent from his nose.

A memory flashes through his mind. A hand reaches towards his snout—pale, thin, wrinkled, shaking when it had once had the strength to grab him by the horn and drag his head down in rough play. A voice—wheezing and thin instead of vibrant and expressive, whispering _“Ah, love,”_ as a beloved, familiar face gone strange and frightening with age looks up at him. He takes a deep breath, and before he can hesitate again, bows his head nearly to the stone of the floor. Voices murmur behind and around him in shocked Draconic, but he does not raise his eyes as he says, “My lady, I have come to humbly beg your assistance. Will you hear me?”

He holds for a moment more, then looks up. Alexstrasza is watching him with her head tilted to one side and her brows furrowed over her luminous eyes. After a long space of time in which his heart falls, she takes a breath and looks around. “Honored guests, dear friends,” she says. “I believe I should speak with young Wrathion. May I ask of you the privacy of the tower top?”

They hesitate, they whisper to each other, but they go. The two reds simply drop over the edge of the tower, and Wrathion hears the massive whump of their wings opening. Swirls of smoke drift upwards as the others change their forms, dissipating in the chaotic wind from a half-dozen mighty pairs of wings churning the air. Chromie is the last to go, sidling only far enough away from the Dragon Queen to change her shape before looking down at her lady uncertainly.

“Peace, Chronomaru,” Alexstrasza says with a reassuring smile. “I am sure all will be well.” At last the bronze goes, shooting a final glare at Wrathion as she drops off the edge. She turns back to him, and he feels the sharp bite of embarrassment fade under the unjudging warmth of her gaze. “Well, Earthwarder. What is it you need?”

“It’s—” he begins, and cuts off with a snarl at the warbling crack of his voice. Alexstrasza politely pretends to be very interested in something off to the side as he composes himself and starts again. “It’s Anduin,” he manages. “He’s dying.”

“Yes,” she replies, and the harsh bluntness of that single word is softened into gentleness by the ocean of sorrow and grief and empathy in her voice. Her eyes meet his for a long moment before she speaks again. “That is the way of humanoids. It is hard indeed for those who love them, but it is the way of life to end in death. I share your grief, lord of the black flight, but there is nothing to be done.”

“Actually, I had something of an idea. But I cannot do it alone.”

—-

Some time later, Alexstrasza surveys him pensively, one curled hand touched to her lips. “It is, perhaps, possible,” she says, and his heart leaps. “It will not be easy. And, Wrathion, I am not entirely sure it can be done at all. It will take so much strength. I am the Lifebinder and you the Earthwarder, but those titles are mere courtesy now. There are no Dragon Aspects any more. Do we have the power for it?”

“Only your power was taken, none of your knowledge,” Wrathion says eagerly. “Aspect of Life or not, you are still one of the oldest and most learned beings on Azeroth, and the most well-versed in the power of life that will ever be. As for power, that was one of the reasons I intend to petition the Naaru as well. That should do it!”

Alexstrasza nods slowly. “Very well. It is—likely—achievable. And yet, simply because we can do something, does it follow that we _should?_ ”

Wrathion reels back like he’s been smacked. “Should—if we _should_? Why on earth should we not? This is Anduin’s _life_ we’re discussing! Would you see him die?”

“I have seen _many_ that were dear to me die,” she snaps, and he shrinks down before the unexpected harshness. “I am very old, Wrathion, and I have lost much, and I have grieved and wept, and I have come to accept that _that is how it is._ Your plan—brilliant and bold and audacious as it is—meddles with the very workings of the _universe._ Have you thought of the repercussions? At the very base level are the political ones, to the human government, to Stormwind’s place in the alliance of races. These do not matter to you, I am sure, but they will to _him._ What will the other flights think? Might they be threatened? You have—after a somewhat rocky start—been a force for good in this world, but the memory of your father is still fresh in many draconic hearts, and those early days make many whisper that no, this one is no different, he simply learned subtlety as he aged. And to tamper with the very forces of death—who knows what you might unleash? I certainly do not. I am sorry, Wrathion, more sorry than I can say, but this is what _must be!_ ”

“ _NO!_ ” he roars, and some part of him is aware that his teeth are bared and wings open and raised in full threat to the _Dragon Queen,_ but his vision is red with fury and flames boil from his mouth. “I won’t lose him! I cannot! I will do anything to prevent it! Before I see him die I will see this world _BURN!_ ”

Very quietly, very gently, she says, “I have heard such threats from a black dragon before, son of Deathwing.”

He freezes, then slowly tucks his wings back to his sides. “I—” he begins, then clears his throat. “I beg your forgiveness, my lady. It was my temper that spoke, with no real intent behind it. If there is one promise I will not break, it is my promise to Anduin to never become my father.” Her face gentles into a soft smile as he folds his legs beneath him, stretching his belly along the ground. He looks down for a moment, pride warring with desperation. Desperation wins. “But, Alexstrasza,” he says, “I have been so _lonely._ Do you know what it is, to be the only one of your kind? There are no other black dragons. In my life, there have never been any other black dragons. I cannot even console myself with their memories, for no one speaks of them but of their madness and cruelty. That thought is always with me, somewhere behind my eyes, even when I am happiest— _laugh while you can, little drake, for you are alone._ The other flights are unsure of me, and who can blame them, but even if they were not they are…they are not _quite_ what I’m looking for, and the similarities make the differences chafe all the more.”

He squeezes his eyes shut. “But Anduin…I never forgot, not even with him, but he makes it seem…not so important. Like there’s some reason to go on, even as the mistrusted last straggling survivor of a dead flight. Like there’s _hope._ ”

A small, soft hand touches the curve of his cheek, cooler than the fire under his scales but still somehow reassuringly warm. He opens his eyes to find Alexstrasza’s face very close to him, her depthless, glowing eyes staring deeply back. After a long, searching pause she sighs gently. “Perhaps I am growing foolish in my old age,” she says. He gasps, starts to climb to his feet, but she shushes him and tugs him gently back down. “Very well, lord of the black flight, you have my aid— _provisionally._ You may tell Kalecgos that you have my approval, and I think he will agree as well, but I have no power to command the Naaru. That being you will have to convince on your own. If you can do so, we will do what we can to save your human love.” She steps back, allowing Wrathion to rise shakily to his feet. “Somehow,” she adds in gentle amusement, “I think you may well be successful.”


	3. Kalecgos

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for the kind comments so far! I'm so glad people like this fic, like I said I haven't much done this before. :) Hopefully this new chapter doesn't disappoint!

Wrathion hates Dustwallow Marsh. It’s wet, it’s humid, it’s gloomy, and most importantly, it reminds him of his family. Nevertheless, Kalecgos has been lairing in Aunt Onyxia’s old caves since shortly after the destruction of Old Theramore, so Wrathion doesn’t have much choice in the matter.

It’s a strange sort of place for a blue dragon, nothing like the airy, magic-supported spires they favor in their Borean Tundra fastholds, but from what he hears Kalec didn’t want to be far from Theramore during its rebuilding—or more importantly, from Jaina Proudmoore. But still, it seems wrong to him—a blue taking one of the deep-earth places of the Black Flight for his own. He circles above the low ridge for a moment to get a look. The bright blue hides of the rabble of dragonspawn stand out sharply against the dull muck and brackish marsh water. Several of them look up and spot him. No one hails, but he sees one quick, slim-built creature dart into the cave mouth and vanish.

He lands close to the cave mouth with his head held high, ignoring the dragonspawn, who gather to watch him but offer no challenge. Ah, and the fanged stalagmite entry gate is gone, replaced with a shimmering magic portal. And—Wrathion squints briefly down the tunnel—it looks like Kalecgos has _redecorated._ He snorts sharply as he steps inside.

Apparently he’s redecorated rather _extensively._ The rough stone of the walls is now smooth and gleaming, the sparse, bare torches replaced by hovering spheres of magelight. Arcane runes and diagrams trace the floors and walls, glowing blue and purple, brightening when he passes by and dimming behind. It makes Wrathion think of the more enclosed bits of the Nexus, in fact, and he rumbles softly in disgust as he navigates the circling tunnels. Onyxia’s tastes may have run more towards burned corpses and charred skeletons than Wrathion considers quite tasteful, but she at least had a black dragon’s proper respect for the unaltered earth.

He gets halfway down the tunnel before he’s challenged, by a pair of large, winged blue dragonspawn. They turn their long bodies sideways to block the tunnel, one of them tapping a spear butt against the tunnel floor as he says, “Halt, and announce yourself to—”

“What is _this?_ ” Wrathion interrupts, not listening. He glowers at the cave wall, where it bulges out to each side, dropping down next to the path to reveal the lurid glare of lava breaking through the earth. Instead of the fiery orange light he remembers, the recesses are enclosed behind a sheet of blue magic force, tinting the whole affair an unpleasant fuchsia. He sniffs at it, rears up to press his forepaws against it, scratches experimentally as the dragonspawn glance at each other uncertainly.

“It’s, uh, a force-screen?” one of them volunteers.

Wrathion casts him a withering glare. “I can see _that,_ ” he replies. “But _why_ is it here? Doesn’t Kalecgos know what he’s doing to the structural integrity of the cave systems?”

There’s another pause-and-glance from the dragonspawn, and Wrathion rattles his wings against his sides in impatience. “Look, obviously you know who I am, so you may announce me to your master all you wish. But I must speak to him, if only about this…this….” He pulls away from the wall, front feet hitting the ground with a _thump._ “This _foolishness._ ”

Finally one dragonspawn nods to the other, and he scrambles down the tunnel, around the curve and out of sight. Wrathion sits, struggling for patience. He had right of admittance to Wyrmrest Temple, but that is a sacred place for all of dragonkind. This, on the other hand, is Kalecgos’s _home,_ and whatever Wrathion’s feelings on the justice of that claim he has to be courteous, at least for now.

The master is meeting with an adventurer,” the remaining dragonspawn tells him. “I don’t know how long he’ll be.”

“There are _always_ adventurers or heroes or fortune-seekers or explorers hanging around dragons, especially the Aspects,” Wrathion replies with a toss of his head. “I doubt very much that it’s terribly important.” The dragonspawn grunts, but doesn’t argue the point.

Fortunately for Wrathion’s fraying nerves, the other sentry isn’t long. He hurries back around the corner, a small humanoid figure in his wake trotting to keep up. He barely has time to register _elf, high elf, blond, male_ before the elf spots him and gasps, a sword springing into his hand with the swiftness of long training.

There’s a tense moment as Wrathion and the elf man stare at each other. He’s no judge of humanoid ages—except possibly humans, for obvious reasons—and elves are trickier than most, but any adult elf is old enough to have encountered black dragons before, and in this case clearly not on friendly terms. He tilts his head slightly, narrowing his eyes. “Well,” he says cautiously. “And am I to be judged and found guilty for the crimes of a family I will never meet, hero?” He growls the last word, and the elf flinches, relaxing out of his combat stance to sheathe his sword.

“My apologies,” the elf says, politely enough if still cautious. “I have heard of you, Wrathion the Black, though I never expected us to meet. Old combat reflexes….”

“Ah, yes, how troublesome. But please, do not permit me to keep you any longer.” Wrathion stares the elf down until he bows politely and sidles past Wrathion’s bulk, and Wrathion unbends enough to sidestep as best he can. As the elf moves out of sight, Wrathion swishes his tail, trying to shake the unpleasant sensation of that moment of open hostility grating on his nerves. Just his luck it was some adventurer he’d never met before—most of the ones old enough to have been active during the battle against Deathwing had wandered through the Tavern in the Mists at least once or twice. He looks back at the dragonspawn, who are watching him with a vaguely pitying expression, and grits his teeth. “I believe your master should be free to see me now, yes?” he snaps, and they look away, parting to wave him through.

\---

The main cavern is entirely full of dragon. The cave, once the roost of a notorious but ordinary-sized dragon brood mother, is not up to the bulk of a full Aspect, and Kalecgos looks uncomfortably cramped. There’s not enough space to fully stretch out his neck, let alone his wings, and Wrathion stifles an unkind chuckle at the sight.

“Lord Kalecgos, do you realize what you’re doing to these caves?” he calls out as he steps into the chamber. Kalec raises his head slowly to fix Wrathion with a flat, level look and Wrathion cringes internally in sudden regret.

"Wrathion the Black, be welcome to my home,” Kalecgos says formally, and Wrathion tells himself he’s imagining the soft shading of irony in that rumbling voice. “What do you mean?”

“The lava vents in the tunnel, a turn or two before this chamber,” Wrathion replies loftily. “They’re not merely decorative, you know. Keeping them capped is a bad idea. The gasses that come off of lava aren’t the sort you want building up in an enclosed area.”

Kalec nods his massive head. “True. Which is why I do make sure that they are cleared regularly.”

“Regularly, maybe, but not _often_ enough. You’re bleeding it fast enough that I don’t think you need worry _too_ much about explosions, but the rock ridge we’re under isn’t terribly stable. The pressure is starting to make things shift, and pretty soon you’ll bring the whole hill down on top of yourself.”

Kalecgos rumbles thoughtfully, looking up at the ceiling. “Truly? Well, I suppose a black would be wiser in the ways of the earth than any blue. I will take your advice under consideration, Earthwarder, and my thanks. But I do not think it was to criticize my construction choices that you came.”

Wrathion takes a breath, trying to bring his frayed temper back under control. Kalecgos has been patient of his snappishness so far, but now’s not the time to antagonize him further. “It’s about King Anduin of Stormwind,” he begins. As concisely and clearly as he can, he lays out his plan. Kalec listens without interruption, his face calm and unreadable. “I have already spoken with the Dragon Queen,” he adds at the end, and Kalecgos blinks in mild surprise. “She has agreed under the condition that you and the Naaru do so as well. Will you aid us, Spellweaver?”

Kalecgos surveys him for a long moment, and Wrathion forces himself to stillness, heart in his throat. Finally, Kalec rumbles with deep finality, “No.”

It takes a moment for the reply to register, and a detached bit of Wrathion’s mind feels himself actually sway on his feet when they do. “What…but…why?” he stutters, hating the weak warble of his voice.

Kalecgos stands. It’s a slow process, as he takes care not to hit anything against the rock walls of the cavern, and even once upright his head is low to avoid the rock ceiling. “I was not the Blue Aspect for very long,” he says, and there’s something dangerous under the unruffled calm of his voice. “I will not fall to the hubris that took my predecessor, his obsession with keeping magic safe and contained—which to him meant, _away from the young races._ But neither will I participate in or _allow_ such a reckless twisting of spell power to one soul’s own personal gain. Do you have _any_ idea of the damage we could cause? The power in such a venture? The _hundreds_ of ways we could fail, or succeed, but not enough, or lose all control of the power and watch it rend and reshape everything around it? I do. No, young Earthwarder. The risk is too great.” He turns his great head away, staring pensively into the northeast.

For lack of any coherent thought, Wrathion turns to follow his gaze. Northeast. Towards….

Towards _New Theramore._

“But that’s not what your reluctance is really about,” he says softly. “Or at least, not entirely.” Kalecgos’s head swivels back to him, and he fights not to flinch from the arcane fire in those piercing eyes. “How long has Jaina Proudmoore been gone, lord of the blue flight?”

Kalecgos is still, dangerously still, except for his lips pulling slowly back from his fangs. “Twenty years,” he says at last, the words rasping low in his chest. “Do you want to guess how long that is to me, drake?”

“Not long at all,” Wrathion says, stubbornly refusing to be intimidated. “Recently enough that you still crouch in the shadow of her city. Recently enough that the thought of someone else escaping the grief you still feel chafes at you. Is it truly the fabric of magic that you care for, Kalecgos, or merely your own bitterness that my love might live when yours did not?”

 _Idiot, fool, your temper will ruin everything,_ he thinks as Kalecgos’s head rears back nearly to the cave roof, but he stands his ground as the air around him goes charged and heavy with magic, blue and purple sparks snapping around him at the slightest movement. The massive blue dragon’s teeth are bared, and the rasping rumble of his growl bounces back off the cave walls. “I have been patient until now, whelp, but do not try me further,” Kalec roars, and Wrathion roars back and spreads his wings in defiance.

“Whelp I may be in comparison to your years and wisdom, but you _forget where you are!_ ” he thunders, the cave shuddering around them in response to his voice. “You crouch over the very bones of my kin and think _yourself_ the lord here? We are under the earth, Spellweaver, within an ancient stronghold of the Black Flight, and it no longer answers to any lord but _ME!”_

Lava bubbles up from the ground, forcing Kalecgos to shift his feet, and rocks rain down on his head and back from the shaking ceiling. A huge boulder strikes him directly between the eyes, and Kalecgos drops with a startled _hrrruf_ of breath, the heavy charge of magic vanishing from the air. He looks up at Wrathion, eyes wide in shock.

Wrathion grabs hold of his temper with a desperate, flailing grasp and forces his wings down. He’s taken Kalec by surprise, but he doesn’t _really_ want to slug it out with a mature dragon thousands of times his age, underground and penned in or not. “My apologies, my lord, my temper is…an ongoing struggle,” he manages, and Kalec’s expression goes even more poleaxed. He bows his head respectfully. “I…I was not fortunate enough to meet Lady Proudmoore often, but she was a human of remarkable strength and character. I am sorry for your loss.”

Kalecgos draws himself up from his sprawl back into the nearly-comfortable crouch he’d been in when Wrathion first entered. He sighs. “Thank you, Wrathion, and I apologize as well. I have…not been myself, these past years.” His voice is calm again, his natural even temper reasserting itself, gaze dropping briefly to the floor before meeting Wrathion’s again. “Jaina…she was very fond of your young king.”

“I would not dream of attempting this without your aid and knowledge,” Wrathion says earnestly, encouraged by the softening of tone. “I am not unaware of the risks, but if anyone can make this work it is you.” He hesitates, then risks a mild joke. “Think of it as a challenge, perhaps?”

Kalecgos snorts out something that’s nearly a laugh, and Wrathion sighs in relief. “It certainly would be that,” he muses, eyes going vague.

 _Yes,_ Wrathion thinks. _I have him now. A true scholar of the blue flight indeed._

Kalecgos shakes himself, focusing back on Wrathion. “Well, if Alexstrasza thinks it’s the right thing to do, who am I to say otherwise? Very well, Earthwarder. You have my aid.”

Wrathion nearly stumbles as his legs go weak in relief. “My gratitude,” he chokes out. “Thank you, Kalecgos, truly.” Kalec nods gravely, and Wrathion turns to go, struggling to hide the tremble in his wings. He circles up the winding passage, promising himself to save the issue of Kalecgos squatting in his aunt’s cave for _much_ later.


	4. O'ros

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should just subtitle this thing "Wrathion Mouths Off To Lore Characters" and have done.

The city of New Exodar flashes like a jewel on the Azuremyst coastline as it comes into view, bright enough that Wrathion squints his eyes against its brilliance. He hovers uncertainly, baffled for a moment by the angular, unfamiliar streets before he catches their orderly radiating pattern. _The center,_ he thinks, looking at the lacy, arched pavilion where the streets converge, something shining brighter than the whole city within.

Friendly voices call out in greeting as he lands, and he looks around wildly for a moment. Two food stands pulled up close to each other catch his eye, the owners grinning at him where they lean against the countertops. It takes him a moment, but he remembers them.

“Paresk and Astaria,” he purrs, shifting to his human form as he walks to easier dart through the crowded streets. “Well. It’s been some time, hasn’t it?”

“Oh, a few decades,” Paresk replies. He’s a massively built male Draenei, now towering over Wrathion, though his tunic bulges over a considerable waistline. “It’s been, what, since the final siege of Stormwind by the Legion?”

Astaria interrupts, shaking her head. “Nah, longer than that, we caught glimpses of you with the then-Prince but I wouldn’t call that a meeting, you were too busy to stop and chat with a couple of worn-out adventurers, and who’s to blame you?” She grins, slinging an arm over Paresk’s shoulders, their closeness making her even greater height apparent. She’s not gone soft like her partner, still powerfully well-defined, but she’s thrown over her old, sensible fighter’s chain and leather for a near-rainbow of silks and satins that flutter with every movement.

Wrathion does not, in fact, remember seeing either of them at that final battlefield, and fishes briefly for a politely neutral answer. “Well, those were busy times for everyone,” he manages. Astaria raises an amused eyebrow. Oops.

“Ah, yes, and the ground was crawling with every sellsword and vagabond and self-proclaimed hero that could be scraped up, hard to spot two in the crowd.” She grins at him, and Paresk extracts himself from her arm with a low chuckle.

“Lots of the adventuring sort hang around the city center when they’re in town,” he says, rummaging in the depths of his cart. “S’where all the important folks who like to send dumb muscle like us out to do their dirty work tend to congregate. And a bunch of the old crowd retire to shops and the like around here, trying to keep an ear in, around for the young pups to ask advice of, you know?” He comes up with a gorgeous honey-glazed pastry, which he tosses to Wrathion. “There, on the house. You’ll probably see folks other than us two who remember you, so wave hey for us, right?”

After that, of course, Wrathion doesn’t manage to extract himself until Astaria has pressed treats of her own onto him, so he sets off minutes later with the pastry in one hand and a blended ice and fruit drink in the other. He sips it cautiously. Oooh. Sunfruit.

Plenty of shopkeeps and passersby wave or shout to him, some he recalls and some he doesn’t, and Wrathion’s grateful for the pastry if only for an excuse not to shout back to some folks he remembers but can’t _quite_ come up with the names of. It’s not a long walk to the very center of the city, but the air is pleasant and the sun is bright, and he finds himself relaxing a little in a way he hasn’t in days.

Finally the road ends in a huge blue-metal archway, rivers of blue and purple light weaving up its surface in the characteristic aesthetic of Draenei architecture. Just beyond, the ground drops suddenly away, the purple-floored path weaving a series of switchbacks down the sides of what he realizes must be the original impact crater of the ship Exodar. All the original ship fragments are gone, leaving a smooth, elegant garden of mixed Azeroth and Outland plants, designed to look almost wild except for the subtle lines of symmetry. It all converges in the lacy, open pavilion he saw from the sky, made of what looks like but can’t possibly be ivory shining with lines of force and magic. There aren’t as many people here, but the ratio of adventurers and fighters to civilians and sightseers has increased dramatically.

He bumps into another adventurer he vaguely remembers just outside the shining entrance, a stocky white-haired female whose muscles and scars sit oddly with her shy smile. He’s ready to push past her with the usual brief greeting when her soft voice interjects with “I have heard the King of Stormwind is unwell.”

Wrathion turns to face her, sees the sympathy in her gently glowing eyes, and remembers. Ah, yes, this one was there once when Anduin had visited at the Tavern in the Mists. A flash of memory hits him—Anduin, chiding, _“Are you_ lecturing _me? You’re, what, two years old?”_ and his own sputtering reply, and this Draenei—Muirin, her name is Muirin, he recalls—sitting with a teacup in one hand and the other politely hiding her smile, though her eyes had crinkled knowingly at the corners.

“Yes, that is true,” he replies, voice tightly controlled.

She nods, her eyes dropping demurely to the floor for a moment. “Ah, I am sorry to hear that, Lord Wrathion,” she says. “I was not fortunate enough to meet the King often, but he had my respect.” She hesitates for a moment, watching him closely, then ventures, “It does not seem so long ago, but to a human lifespan, I suppose it is. I am sorry. It is a hard thing, to care so for one of the shorter-lived peoples.”

She was young, in the Pandaria War, he recalls. Barely an adult by the standards of her people. She still is, for that matter. Species that count their lifespan in millennia think very little of spans less than a century. He nods sharply. “Thank you, Muirin.” She blinks, perhaps surprised that he remembers her name. “It has been...difficult. But such is the world, or so I have been told repeatedly these last few days.” Oh, that had gotten a bit snippy. Time to go. “Forgive me, my temper is somewhat strained of late,” he adds smoothly, and she murmurs something polite, stepping further out of his way so he can sweep into the lacework building.

Bare, smooth white floor stretches out before him, hints of blue sky and green vegetation visible through the sides of the building, and in the center floats the glowing alien geometries of the Naaru O’ros. A soft, harmonizing hum fills the air, like the notes of a thousand wind chimes sustained forever just on the edge of fading out of hearing. The Naaru’s blue glow tints the entire structure a shimmering blue-white, the colors flickering and changing with every slight shift of those strange glowing limbs. Wrathion gulps slightly as he pauses at the entrance, then squares his shoulders as he walks forward, stopping just far enough that it’s not a strain to look up at O’ros’s…head? Top?

“Naaru O’ros, my greetings,” he calls.

There’s no reply in words, but something brushes the edges of his awareness, a crystalline sparkle dancing behind his eyes and a sense of acknowledgement.

“I have come to ask for your aid, for the sake of King Anduin Wrynn.”

Still no words, but that sense of awareness is still there, listening but neutral. Wrathion feels his lips pull back from his teeth.

“I have been from one end of this little world to the other seeking aid,” he says, half aware that the pitch and volume of his voice is rising steadily. “I have been asked again and again whether I have _thought this through,_ as if I would not have. I have faced jealousy and grief and disapproval, mistrust and hatred and doubts have been cast on my parentage and, far more hurtfully, on my character, and I am so very tired. My wings ache, my eyes burn, my very soul cries for rest, so whatever questions you might have please can we get them out of the way as fast as possible and skip to the part where you agree to help, because if I can convince Kalecgos _and_ Alexstrasza I doubt you can raise any objections they…have…n-not….”

He cuts off as the blue glow of the Naaru suddenly shines sun-bright on him. There’s a cool, gentle touch in his mind, pressing slightly as if asking permission, and he pushes it away sharply on sheer reflex. A liquid trill of sound echoes through the room, reassuring, and the touch returns. He frowns, hesitates for a moment longer, then lets it in.

It rushes through his thoughts like a river, glancing away without contest from any hasty barrier he throws up around memories too sensitive or too private but trickling through all the rest. The tendrils of it collect around Wrathion’s memories of Anduin, and a hundred-hundred half-forgotten moments flash in front of his eyes—Anduin laughing, Anduin crying, Anduin’s face twisted in worry and fear as he stares wide-eyed at Wrathion, Anduin smiling warmly at him from a pile of cushions and blankets they’ve dumped onto the floor of his bedchamber, or touching his torn scales with frantic, half-coherent reassurances spilling from his lips and the glow of the Light dancing from his fingers, or standing unmoved as a mountain in the face of Wrathion’s anger, or resting a hand on his snout in a gesture innocent enough for any public venue but loaded with meaning and tradition for the two of them. The cool blue touch weighs these briefly, then moves on, to that last frantic meeting where he had begged Anduin to _wait for me,_ then reviews his meetings with Kalecgos and Alexstrasza in careful, measuring detail. Finally it pulls away, leaving him alone in his own mind again.

The crystalline singing floating in the air shifts subtly. There are still no words, but the press of the air around him seems to say, _Yes._

“You…you will help?” Wrathion asks.

A trickle of amusement, and again, _Yes._

“Thank you,” he says. _“Thank you.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY I CAVED there's a cameo from my Draenei Paladin main. It's Muirin. That's her. That's me.


	5. Anduin

Cold.

Anduin floats in darkness and cold.

Somewhere just above him is the rest of the world, but between him and it there hovers an angry red haze of agony. Occasionally his mind stirs a little, reaching towards awareness, but each time it brushes against that raw jagged redness and he draws back, sinking into the dark floating chill.

“…duin?”

He’s been sinking steadily, further into that silence and stillness, deeper into the cold. Something’s bothering him, though. He can’t quite remember what, but he thinks—he thinks—there’s some reason he can’t just sink under.

“Anduin!”

A voice? No, no one’s spoken to him in a long time. He’s waiting for…what is he waiting for?

“Anduin, it’s me, wake up, please!”

_Wrathion._

Anduin surges awake, tearing straight through that red haze, and it seizes his bones and his lungs in a searing iron grip. He coughs weakly, a tiny, pitiful _“eh, eh”_ that nevertheless feels like shards of glass are being squeezed through his chest. Forcing his burning, gummy eyes open, he focuses on the familiar face inches above his own, those warm scarlet eyes wide with worry.

Wrathion manages a slightly wobbly smile as he brushes a bit of silver hair away from Anduin’s too-cold brow. “See, love, I told you I’d be back if you gave me a bit of time,” he says softly. “And look, I’ve brought some friends to see you.”

Blinking in confusion, Anduin peers over Wrathion’s shoulder. There are two—three?—figures, but he can’t quite get his eyes to focus. One leans in, and warm, soft fingers brush his cheek, the haze of blurry features resolving into the beautiful face of the Dragon Queen Alexstrasza.

“Wrathion, we have to hurry,” she says, calm and gentle but with an undercurrent of urgency. “I don’t think he can hold out much longer.”

There’s a floating chime of sound from the shape that Anduin hesitates to call a figure, and he blinks in confusion. He tries to speak, but trying to draw in enough air sends a jolt of searing fire down his throat, catapulting him into another fit of tiny, breathless coughs. Wrathion strokes his face, murmuring soothing nonsense even as his fingers tremble, half-turning to glance over his shoulder.

“Ready,” says another voice, from the last figure. This one doesn’t come close enough to the bed for Anduin to see him, but the voice is male and familiar. He’s still trying to puzzle it out as Wrathion’s deceptively slender arms slip under him at shoulders and knees, lifting him carefully up off the bed. Despite Wrathion’s caution, Anduin chokes back a gasp of pain as his fragile old bones are jostled. Blackness creeps in around the edges of his vision, and by the time he can open his eyes again he’s settled onto the floor of his own room. Lumps at the boundaries of his sight resolve themselves as he squints into pushed-aside furniture, leaving a wide-open space that he rests in the center of, arcane lines and runes scratched into the very stones of the floor. He lies on his back with his head flopped to the side, and Wrathion stands before him, at an intersection in the lines of the pattern, watching him anxiously but holding still. He can hear the others moving behind and around him, but doesn’t have the strength to turn his head and look. 

“I don’t like doing this in our humanoid forms,” the half-remembered voice rumbles.

“He can’t be moved further. We’ll simply have to manage it in forms that will fit the room,” Alexstrasza replies. “Wrathion, you should change, though. We will need your true form. As well that you are still young—a drake can still fit in this room where a grown dragon of any notable years would not.”

“Yes, of course, my lady. Just a little longer, Anduin, all right?” There’s a rush of wind and a breath of smoke on the air, and a moment later Wrathion’s sleek black neck stretches out to brush his nose against Anduin’s cheek. Anduin struggles to lift his hand, to touch the smooth black scales, but his hand barely twitches over the stone. He grimaces. His eyes try to slide shut and he forces them open again, blinking hard.

“Hurry,” Wrathion says. That soft windchime hum answers him again, a blue light overlaying everything. Anduin sees Wrathion’s claws clench against the ground, but he keeps quiet, eyes fixed on whatever’s going on behind Anduin. He catches himself fading again, and his eyes don’t snap open again this time until Wrathion nudges him sharply. “We have to do this _now,_ he’s going,” Wrathion snaps.

“Damn, you’re—” says the male voice, and then Anduin’s hearing fails him entirely, replaced by a shrill ringing in his ears completely unlike that floating music. He blinks, but his vision is fading, grey nothingness creeping around the edges of his sight. He catches brief flashes—Wrathion’s claws scratching red sigils into the air, multicolored light blooming behind him and casting writhing shadows on the wall, Alexstrasza’s voice calling “—ow, do it now, Wra—” and then….

PAIN.

Searing, tearing, twisting. He screams, or tries to, the jagged glass in his throat and lungs completely ignored for the wave of dizzying agony that rushes over him. He could swear it’s pulling him apart, wrenching his joints from their sockets, tearing apart his skin. He writhes on the floor, the agony only growing, until finally consciousness gives out and then….

Darkness.

\---

An eternity later, Anduin wakes.

He feels strange. At first he’s not sure why, but after a slow moment he realizes that nothing hurts. _Nothing_ hurts. Not the sharp, killing ache that lingered in his chest these last three years, not the creak and protest of old bones, not…not even the weakly knit-together places in his legs from all those years ago, when a bell in Pandaria had crushed him as it fell. He feels _young_ again.

He contemplates this fact for a while, until finally the thought creeps in that the lack of pain isn’t the only thing that’s strange. He’s not on his back any more, but his stomach, and something about his neck is wrong. His chest and his chin both rest comfortably on the ground, which _should_ be a terrible strain to his neck, but it feels easy, natural. Anduin lifts an arm, reaching for the back of his neck, and stops.

His arm won’t stretch that far. It’s not the painful halt of an injury or a dislocation, just the natural stretch of a muscle reaching its limit. But why can’t he touch the base of his neck…?

“Anduin?”

He opens his eyes and Wrathion is standing in front of him, sharp and clear and visible in ways Anduin hadn’t even known he had lost. His dragon’s head is dipped low to hover close to Anduin’s own, and his burning eyes are wide and soft and wondering.

“Wrathion,” he says, marveling at the strength of his voice. Had it always echoed so deep in his chest? “Love, what….what happened?” 

“Well,” Wrathion begins, but is interrupted by Alexstrasza circling into view and dropping to her knees to stare into Anduin’s eyes.

“Anduin Wrynn,” she says. “How do you feel?”

“Good,” Anduin answers. “Better than I have in…a long time. But what did you do?”

Instead of replying, the Dragon Queen only smiles as she rises to her feet. “Yes. It went well. He is fine,” she says to Wrathion. “Anduin, you should get up.”

“I…all right,” Anduin says, planting his hand to push himself up. But then, he finally glances down at that hand, and freezes in place.

Three long, hard toes. Curved, wickedly pointed black talons. Smooth interlocking black scale. It isn’t a hand any more, but a dragon’s forefoot.

_They didn’t._

Anduin scrambles to his feet. At first, he automatically pushes off with his hands—forepaws—whatever, as he tries to stand on two legs, but the distribution of his weight is all wrong and he falls back onto— _oh, Light_ —all fours. He stares down at his undeniably draconic legs, then whips his _suddenly very flexible_ neck around to look at his back, some strangely familiar instinct leading him to shift new muscles in his chest and back, so that his— _oh, Light and glory_ —his _wings_ open to their full spread. He lashes his tail, feeling the weight and the swing of it, the heavy mace-like counterbalance on the end dragging with a rumble against the floor until he pulls it off the ground.

He is, quite definitely and undeniably, a black dragon. Specifically a drake—he can’t see his own horns, or the underside of his throat to check for a dewlap, but he doesn’t have the terrible spiked maul of an adult dragon on his tail.

And, most amazingly, it all feels so _right._ Maybe it should be strange and upsetting, but it’s just so _good_ to feel strong and healthy again.

"How did—Wrathion—what?” he manages, turning his head back to the drake. The other drake.

“I realized—I was thinking—ninety isn’t that old for a dragon. Not even quite an adult. I thought, we would still have so much more time if only you were a dragon. That’s when it hit me, of course. A stroke of sheer brilliance. I was going to ask properly, once I’d returned, but there was no time. Of course you see that it was the only way.” Wrathion tilts his head arrogantly, and only someone who knows him as well as Anduin could possibly see the desperate uncertainty in the clench of his claws, the slight trembling of his wings. Anduin gropes for a reply, but he’s dumbstruck, and Wrathion rushes on to fill the silence. “I couldn’t do it myself, of course, or I’d have never left you alone so ill. I had to go get help. Lady Alexstrasza to shape life. Lord Kalecgos to form the spell. O’ros of the Naaru for power and guidance. Myself as template. Ingenious, don’t you think? You…you do approve, don’t you?”

Anduin glances over his shoulder, where the two Dragon Aspects and the alien geometries of the Naaru are quietly sliding out the door. Alexstrasza looks back briefly, her warm eyes meeting his, and nods.

“Anduin?” He turns back to Wrathion again. “I don’t—ah—I don’t think it would be…reversible, is the only thing. It might take some, some adjusting, but I think you’ll find that—”

“You brilliant, radiant, stubborn, unrelenting, breathtaking fool,” Anduin breathes. Shakily, he lifts his forefoot, touching it to Wrathion’s snout in an approximation of their old familiar touch. It looks strange now, his great clawed paw hiding the entire end of Wrathion’s snout instead of his hand resting lightly between the nostrils, and he puts it back down, pressing his own nose there instead in a snout-to-snout caress. Wrathion is shaking, just a little, but he lets out a slow breath and it fades. “This is…how could you even think this is possible? You just—you just laughed in the face of the laws of nature, and for me? You’re an arrogant fool, and I love you for it.”

“You approve, then?” Wrathion asks softly.

“Approve? This is _incredible._ I haven’t felt so good since before I even met you!” He huffs a laugh.

Wrathion draws back, arching his head up high to look down and over Anduin, his eyes fire-bright with pride and wild, fierce joy. “Yes,” he rumbles. “And now we have _centuries_ to enjoy it together, my love. My lion of Stormwind. My Dragon King.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaand that's it, the end of my Very First Multichapter Fic! Thanks so much for reading, and comments feed me. 
> 
> I have some ideas for another oneshot or two in this verse, and if I ever get reeeeally ambitious I might do something with the vague Dragonflight Politics bunnies I have bouncing around on the edges of my consciousness. No promises, as always.


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